


TRILLIUM

by MyMisguidedFairytale



Series: DESIDERATUM [3]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Companion Piece, F/M, Gift Fic, Gratuitous Descriptions of Hairstyling, M/M, Multi, One Shot, Post-Mission, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 19:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15371919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyMisguidedFairytale/pseuds/MyMisguidedFairytale
Summary: After a successful mission, Hisoka, Machi, and Illumi rest and recover. [HisoIlluMachi, sequel to OBELUS]





	TRILLIUM

**Author's Note:**

> TRILLIUM was originally written and published on October 1, 2015 on [tumblr](http://mymisguidedfairytale.tumblr.com/post/130301010785/fanfiction-hunter-x-hunter-trillium).
> 
> Everything below is preserved as it was originally posted:
> 
> Written for [sharkvoodoo](http://sharkvoodoo.tumblr.com), as a companion piece to [the beautiful art](http://sharkvoodoo.tumblr.com/post/129756301666/because-im-a-rebel-and-highly-impatient-im) she made for me for hxhsummerexchange! The story is set in the same verse as my other HisoMachi fics and takes place post-[OBELUS](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14261925), but the stories can all be read independently. I hope you enjoy!

##  _**TRILLIUM** _

The assignment has been particularly difficult—not for the strength of their quarry, which is a shame, but for the sheer length of time of the stakeout required and the conditions they have to travel through to see their assignment completed, and for the very fact that they have to enlist the help of an outsider—and as Machi leads the way back to their safehouse, a tiny, ground-floor apartment on the very fringes of the city’s urban center, she casts one last glance backwards, at the third member of their party, who was making sure they hadn’t been followed.

The three of them are covered head-to-toe in mud. _Thick_ mud. It is in her hair and between her toes, and as the sun comes up and the air grows warmer it is beginning to dry on her exposed arms.

The safehouse is the best they could come up with considering the minimal planning time the assignment has given them, and while Machi would have preferred something nicer, their primary goal is to stay inconspicuous, and the only complaints she heard from Hisoka had to do with the poor lighting in the bathroom while he drew the symbols on his face three days prior. And Illumi, the associate Hisoka had contacted to join them, hadn’t said much at all beyond a simple introduction at their meeting and brief assessments on the progress of their mission and a few compliments at Machi’s abilities.

The key—she’d lashed it to her ankle with _Nen_ strings—comes away coated with mud. Grimacing, Machi opens the door, and the three tumble inside the narrow entryway. Hisoka’s hand finds the light switch, and the single, bare bulb flickers to life. They track muddy footprints across the linoleum—Machi toes off her shoes, kicking them against one wall, and she hears identical _thuds_ a few moments later.

The furniture is just as bare as the rest of the apartment—an oversized sofa and battered appliances in the kitchen beyond—but the living space has a thick, handwoven rug, an unexpected luxury until Machi remembers that this area is known for producing such heirlooms.

Illumi’s voice calls past the open door of the single bedroom. “I can’t wait to get some _sleep_.”

Machi storms past as fast as her limited strength can take her. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” she says. “Not until you’ve had a shower.”

This presents a problem, as the apartment is only equipped with a single bathroom, and Hisoka has already beaten them inside.

“You two can join me, if you want~”

She glances at Hisoka, standing in the doorway, his arms crossed over his now-bare chest. Machi begins to peel off her gloves. “At this point, I don’t even care. I just want to be clean.”

Hisoka’s face lights up, but as Machi walks past him, in the act of taking off the braces that frame his biceps, her expression twists. “Keep the rest on.”

“Whatever you say.”

Machi snorts, adding her obi to the pile of unsalvageable clothes in the corner. Her uwagi follows, but her undershirt is in good enough condition to keep, and she can feel Hisoka’s eyes on her for a moment before he shifts and she can hear him start to run the water.

She kicks off her legwarmers and turns, surprised to see Illumi, instead of Hisoka, fiddling with the water dials.  

Hisoka ducks his head towards Illumi. “Do you need any help with that?”

Illumi sticks out a mud-encrusted arm, and Hisoka clicks his tongue, deftly undoing the buckles and zippers that hold his shirt together. The picture they paint is too oddly intimate—Hisoka’s touch is gentle when he brushes away flecks of dried mud, but rough when he undoes the buckles, and Illumi keeps casting him annoyed glances at the slowness of his progress. Watching them makes her feel like she’s intruding on something, even though she can’t ascribe any feelings of jealousy or longing to them herself. So she breezes past them, yanking the curtain aside—it’s a pink translucent plastic, and like the rest of the room has seen better days—and tilts the shower head up to cast the widest spray.

“It’s not warm yet,” Illumi says. There’s no audible inflection to his voice, but to her it sounds almost like concern.

“I’d prefer the water cold.” Her loose hair is soaked in a matter of minutes, and she takes the opportunity of having the shower to herself, at least temporarily, to reach for the soap and begin cleaning her arms.

She blinks through a curtain of wet hair to see Hisoka stepping in beside her, frowning at the temperature. His makeup, smudged and dull after so long, begins to fade with the water. She doesn’t look at the way it runs over his shoulders, or clings to his bangs, weighed down and darkened. She doesn’t look at Illumi’s back, turned towards her, as he takes painstaking care to comb through his wet hair with fingers coated in shampoo suds.

Suddenly, she feels fingers on her scalp. Out of instinct, Machi reaches forward, her hand catching Hisoka’s wrist in a grip designed to bruise. Instead, he laughs. 

“I thought I’d help. Do you mind?”

She would, if she wasn’t so tired. She can’t muster up the energy to care at all, so she gives a shrug in reply and he begins to massage shampoo into her hair, running his thumbs behind her ears and sweeping his fingers up the back of her scalp to make sure every single strand is coated. She would almost appreciate the gesture if she thought there was a chance he was doing it just as much for her as for himself. He continues to massage her head, and she lets it go on for longer than she should before shaking his hands free and moving closer to the spray.

It puts her closer to Hisoka than she’d like, and every time she tilts her head to rinse it from a different angle her arms brush against his. He doesn’t move to give her any space—not that there is any—and Hisoka’s skin is warmer still than the tepid water.

There isn’t conditioner, which Machi really regrets not buying, but at least she can run her fingers through her hair, and all of the mud has been washed away.

“Hey.” It’s a soft voice at her side, and Illumi turns to look at her over one shoulder. “There’s a spot on my back I can’t reach.”

There is a line of dirt at the middle of his back, about where the edge of his overshirt would have hit. His shoulders are still covered with soap lather, and without thinking she reaches out and presses her hands against his back.

He looks a little surprised when she does, sweeping his hair out of the way and working at cleaning the grime from his skin. She’s not sure why she does it—perhaps it’s only a moment of sympathy, or an unwillingness to leave him to Hisoka or let him struggle, but after she finishes she gets a nod and a rare look of gratitude.

“Hmm? Machi? I have the same problem,” Hisoka says, propping one arm against the dated pink tiles.

“Get him to help you,” she says, and pulls the curtain back to leave.

The towels are threadbare and nowhere near big enough, but she dries her hair and body as best she can, wringing out the hem of her undershirt and stumbling back into the single bedroom. The last time they’d stayed in the apartment, Machi had woven herself a hammock out of Nen threads and attached it to the ceiling. She doubts in her current condition she could create much more than a single thread, let alone enough for such an undertaking, so with a resigned sigh she falls forward, towel and all, onto the bed. Her feet are dangling off the edge, and she’s lying on top of the blankets instead of under them, but she can’t muster the strength to do anything more than close her eyes and drift off to sleep.   

–

She wakes up in a warm, relaxed haze. It’s amazing how good a bed can feel after going without one for awhile—for a moment, Machi thinks she’s back in the Yorkshin suite she’d been staying at prior to this mission—but the lighting isn’t right, it’s too soft, and the window is facing the wrong direction.

She blinks and cracks open her eyes. It’s only a mixture of shock and tact that keep her from lashing out and kicking the body sleeping in front of her.  Hisoka’s bare chest is only inches from her own body. He’s breathing deeply, but not snoring, and as she cranes her neck up to glimpse his face, obscured by his deep red hair, she believes with relative certainty that at least he is still asleep.

She takes stock of the rest of her surroundings, moving as little as possible—there is a leg slung over hers, and the rest of her is tangled in the sheets—she slides one arm back, feeling for Illumi, and trying to gauge just how much space she has to try and wriggle her way free.

A cold hand suddenly grasps her arm, and Machi stills. So he was not asleep, as she’d thought.

“What are you doing?” Illumi pushes her arm, moving her back into her prior position, and she can feel him shifting on the bed. His voice seems to come from someplace above her head, and he sounds nowhere near as tired as Machi expects. “Go back to sleep. It’s only seven.”

So he can tell time internally. An interesting skill to file away for future notice. The last thing she wants to do is go back to sleep, and when she shifts, she brushes against him again. His hand grasps her free arm again, just above the elbow, in another attempt to keep her still.

“Your hands are cold.” It’s true, and a complaint is a safer thing to say over any of the alternatives. She certainly wouldn’t want to imply that such a situation is acceptable, or even worse, enjoyable.

“You stole the blankets,” he says, by way of explanation.

“I remember falling asleep on top of them.”

“You were sleeping horizontally. We moved you.”

She muffles a snort, turning her head and letting her bangs fall over her eyes. She doesn’t remember that, but she can believe it easily enough. His hand is still touching her, but now his skin seems to have warmed up from contact with hers. It’s not unpleasant—rather, the added stability is appealing. Knowing exactly where her teammates hands are makes it less likely one of them will be holding a knife at her back. She knows Hisoka’s motives—he desires battles with the troupe members and with their leader, and she doubts she is much of an exception—and Illumi is an unknown, and better classified as dangerous until she can better establish his own intentions and goals.

“You should be quiet,” she tells Illumi. “We don’t want to wake him up.”

There’s a chuckle, from the body in front of her, a deep rumble that comes from his chest. “It’s a little too late for that,” Hisoka says.

Preempting Machi’s scathing reply, Illumi sits up—his hand drops from Machi’s arm, and she feels the bed dip where he supports his weight. “I suppose we should get up,” he says. “I know this isn’t ideal for any of us.”

“Speak for yourself, Illumi,” she hears Hisoka mumble, a bare arm curling tighter around his pillow.

The bed dips again as Illumi climbs out, and Machi takes the opportunity to roll into the now-unoccupied space, disengaging the sheet from where it tangles around her midsection and legs. She glances once at Hisoka, stretching one arm overhead and scratching at his neck with the other. He catches her staring and offers a mischievous grin.

She looks away sharply. This isn’t the first time she’s seen him like this—they often share close quarters on missions, after all—but this morning, with the mission behind them instead of before them, the intimacy granted by their close proximity is much harder to deny or ignore.

Pieces of hair fall over her face, and she stiffens. Lifting a hand to her head, she sighs, feeling how the hair dried—in strange, unkempt curls, sticking out in all directions. Normally, she would never have let herself fall asleep without at least tying it back, and she can only imagine how ridiculous it looks now.

Hisoka chuckles again, and she looks over, surprised. She watches as he climbs out of bed, looks at his own hair—artfully messy instead of bedhead—and it occurs to her that he’s laughing not at the state of her hair, but at her own reaction to it.

“Come,” he says, and holds out a hand to her. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”

–

She doesn’t know what possesses her to accept his offer, but she does, and finds herself following his direction, sitting before him in the living room on the edge of that ornate, woven rug. He sits with his back to the sofa’s base, and she with her back to him, leaning forward even as he adjusts her posture every few minutes to pull her back towards him.

He’d spent a minute rifling through his bag, gathering up whatever hairstyling products he felt necessary—he hadn’t even bothered with a shirt, or suggested that she take a minute to put on some fresh clothes herself—merely turned to the task of taming her hair with a methodical precision that was almost impressive.

After a few minutes, Illumi wanders into the room. He stops, catching sight of them, and there’s the barest inflection of surprise to his otherwise fixed expression as he watches Hisoka patiently brushing out her hair.

Instead of setting down the brush, Hisoka presses it into Machi’s hands. She glances back at him, raising an eyebrow, before Hisoka motions to Illumi, gesturing towards the space in front of her. He walks closer, with a questioning pause, and when Machi folds her legs underneath her Illumi gracefully drops into the open space.

Hisoka begins to twist her hair up, combing his fingers through it to flatten out the bumps, and Machi hesitantly smoothes the hair above Illumi’s ears back. There are a few tangles to get out; his hair is almost too long to be practical, and the only reaction she gets from him is the tilting of his head to match which side she works on.

She brushes the length of his hair, frowning. “You’re too tall for this,” she says.

Slowly, Illumi leans back, shifting his legs forward until he lies sprawled acros the rug, his head in Machi’s lap. At this angle, it is easy to sweep his hair free, letting it flow over her thigh like a curling river of ink. Hisoka’s hands have stopped moving, she notices, one resting at the nape of her neck, and when her own hands still, fingers hooked in Illumi’s hair, Hisoka reaches in front of her to offer a palmful of bobby pins.

She takes them, rolling the pins between her fingers as Hisoka resumes his work, separating out her bangs before tying up her ponytail. She combs her free hand through Ilumi’s hair once more; when she scratches her short nails across Illumi’s neck, he shivers.

“What do you want me to do with it?” she asks.

He shrugs, his shoulders pressing against her legs. “Whatever you’d like.”

She had hoped for a little more direction than that, but she begins to separate his hair into sections, beginning a loose plait at his neck. His hair is slippery and thin and remarkably shiny, and while she doesn’t often indulge in alternative hairstyles beyond a simple ponytail herself, his hair is effortless to braid. It’s an easy rhythm to fall into, intertwining strands of hair until she comes to the end, using her teeth to open up a pair of bobby pins and crisscrossing them above the edge of the plait.

She coils the plait against his right shoulder, smoothing any loose hairs away from his face and behind his ears. Behind her, Hisoka seems to have finished with her own hair, and teases the edges of her ponytail to amplify the volume. Then, his hands drop to her shoulders, and encourage her to lean back as Illumi had.

Her head fits perfectly against his left shoulder, her body curving against his as he props up one of his  legs to frame her side. The places where his skin directly touches hers—her shoulders, arms, and upper back—are all abnormally warm, and she finds herself relaxing just the smallest bit. Illumi reaches back to hook one hand against the calf of Hisoka’s propped leg.

One of her hands drifts down, to the carpet beneath them. The pile is thick, and she drags her palm through it, over the pale blocks of orange, green, and red. It reminds her, for a moment, of waking up, pressed between them.

The three of them rest like this, breathing softly, for a few minutes. They all smell like the same cheap soap Machi had bought at a convenience store on the other side of the city at the start of their mission. The reminder of the mission wakes her up a little, and she leans forward, blinking.

“We never reported in,” she says, her voice colored with confusion; like that, more than anything else, surprises her about the strange turn the past day has taken. “We need to confirm our success with Danchou. We should have done it last night—”

“Stay.” It’s Hisoka, his voice surprisingly light.

Illumi makes no motion to move, to allow her to leave their company for her phone to call it in. He doesn’t look at her, only presses his shoulders more firmly against her legs. “Five minutes will make no difference.”

“Five minutes,” she says, with forced reluctance. “I’ll trust you to tell me when.”

“Of course,” Illumi says. Behind her, Hisoka is still.

She is not sure how much time has passed when she notices how Illumi’s breathing has evened out. It is still early, after all, and she doesn’t want to disturb him. She doesn’t want to disturb _this_ —this careful peace, this tentative brewing familiarity that she can’t decide if she likes or not. Machi closes her eyes. Another five minutes couldn’t hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) a [Trillium](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Trillium) is a plant with three petals, which dies if any of them are picked.
> 
> 2) Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your comments.


End file.
